


A painted romance

by myhamsterisademon



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:34:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: “That is quite a good painting,” Albert said, now suddenly serious.“Isn’t it?” Franz answered brightly, nervously getting on his feet to stand beside the soldier, his own cheerfulness a mere act.  “Do you remember it, my friend?”“I do,” the other said, in an indescribable voice, and rose his eyes to scrutinize Franz’s expression. “I do know it very well, my friend, and I can distinctly recall, I do beg you to correct me if I am wrong, I distinctly recall, was I saying, that it is me, and no-one else, who insisted that you buy this fine work-of-art. In Florence, wasn’t it? Not later than one or two years ago.”“Why, my dear, you can praise yourself of having an excellent memory!”“Indeed. I remember many things of our journey through Italy, Franz, many things.”





	A painted romance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Most Excellent Cigars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197332) by [Maculategiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe). 



> HEAVILY inspired by Most Excellent Cigars. Actually the first few lines are the same. Sorry. Just didn't know how to start (btw yes Albert/Franz is totally a thing)

“Is it you, Franz?” cried a young man, taking a step forward and seizing Franz’s hands and crushing them in his own. “Is it you really, my dear friend Franz?”

Franz himself could not believe his eyes and, weren’t he a skeptical, he would have thought that the still young, boyish lad standing upon him was a phantom from his past. But Albert de Morcerf, for it was Albert who was shaking his hands and smiling to Franz, was quite real and not one bit changed.

“It is me, indeed,” said Franz, making a superhuman effort to conceal the surprise that, he was sure, had shone for an instant on his own face. Though, if the baron remembered Albert well, he could rest assured that the emotion had gone unnoticed. “It _is_ me. My dear friend, how do you do?”

“Oh, Franz,” laughed Albert, “Franz, how formal you sound! ‘My dear friend, how do you do’! Is this a way to greet one of your most intimate acquaintances? For sure, many grave events have happened” – and at these words, Albert’s eyebrows knitted, his teeth going to nibble his lower lip, which Franz tried not to stare at – “but I would have thought our relationship unchanged! How embarrassed and stiffy you sound! Why, I am quite well, as you see for yourself.” 

“I do, indeed,” answered Franz, admiring in silent wonderment Albert’s long, thin figure. “You have not changed at all, my dear, or let me rephrase that, you are still the charming young man I remember, if not a bit less pale, and lot more tan.”

Albert laughed, the sound of his mirth echoing in the room of Franz’s own studio. Franz _was_ quite embarrassed and stiffy, for he did not know how he ought to address to his former companion. Should he refer to him as Albert? The younger man had called him by his first name but then again, Albert seemed to call all his friends by their first name, even the ones he did not like. And Franz did not think it appropriate to be so intimate towards the younger man, after not having seen him for a whole year. Should he say _monsieur de Morcerf_ , and take the risk to hurt Albert? Franz had heard that the boy went by his mother’s surname, but he was not certain, as it had been merely a rumor: he did not want to stir a painful memory by mentioning the late count, but he also did not want to offend him by dismissing his father’s name, for Franz knew that Albert used to have great pride in his family’s patronymic.

He also felt somewhat remorseful for not having written to his friend and was afraid of any accusation or remonstrance that Albert would surely address him, although, for now, the lad seemed perfectly happy to be in the baron’s house and he was not one bit cross.

Meanwhile, Albert had taken a seat, staring at the furniture and visibly appreciating the decoration of the room. The accommodation itself was beautifully and richly decorated: the walls were of a pale, creamy white colour and the various tables, chairs and bookcases were made of the finest woods. Useless, expensive but charming trinkets were scattered everywhere and Albert seemed to be taking great pleasure in toying with them. The windows were wide-open and the light came rushing through them, a feeble breeze attenuating the hotness of the August sun.

Suddenly, Albert’s eyes stopped on a particular painting, and he rose to his feet, walking quickly to look at the work-piece. The picture represented a young boy, undressed, barely covered by the canopy of a tree. He was laying on a bed of flowers, his short-cut blonde hair glowing like gold under the painted sunlight. There was something languid and sensual in that picture; it had cost Franz more than he liked to remember (the picture had caused great scandal, for the lad truly had the semblance of a Greek demi-god, not only in his chiseled features, but in the debauchery of his position also, and the disrepute had only served to increase the painting’s value), but it was quite a good composition and the baron held it dear for different reasons than its absurd price.

Franz observed his host, both of them silent, leaving the young man to the flood of memories that was surely surging in his heart and, when emotion did cloud Albert’s eyes, he relished in the slight blush which quickly covered the youth’s cheeks.

The boy was lovely still, Franz pondered, now even lovelier under the sunlight that gleamed through the wide-open windows. Albert was tall, thin, his long limbs still those of little more than a boy, but something in his posture, in the way he proudly jutted out his chin, in the way his shoulders and back seemed to sustain him, something seemed to age him, although scarcely twelve months had passed since they had last met.

The ruin of his name and his house, the boy’s father’s death and one year of hardship in the Spahis, immediately following these two great tragedies, all this, Franz knew, were enough to provoke a great change in a man, both in physic and personality, but (Franz was surprised to find himself merry at that thought) the viscount only appeared more aware of his surroundings, more mature, in some way, but not in the least miserable.

His beauty itself had not tarnished: his skin was not as smooth and white as it had once been, a faint scar ran through the lad’s left eyebrow (Franz, when he noticed it, was astonished to remark that Albert had not tried to hide it from the world’s prying and judgmental eyes), his hair was cut, now, it no longer brushed the nape of his neck, but the usual playfulness and pleasant insolence of his lovely features had not vanished.

There was a lot in Albert of the soldier he now was, but the fashionable, witty young man would never fade; Franz was certain of that.

“That is quite a good painting,” Albert said, now suddenly serious.

“Isn’t it?” Franz answered brightly, nervously getting on his feet to stand beside the soldier, his own cheerfulness a mere act.  “Do you remember it, my friend?”

“I do,” the other said, in an indescribable voice, and rose his eyes to scrutinize Franz’s expression. “I do know it very well, _my friend_ , and I can distinctly recall, I do beg you to correct me if I am wrong, I distinctly recall, was I saying, that it is me, and no-one else, who insisted that you buy this fine work-of-art. In Florence, wasn’t it? Not later than one or two years ago.”

“Why, my dear, you can praise yourself of having an excellent memory!”

“Indeed. I remember _many_ things of our journey through Italy, Franz, many things.”

The tone in which those last words had been said sent an involuntary shiver through Franz’s spine, and he turned his eyes, to avoid Albert’s piercing gaze, for he was sure that this time he would not be able to hide his own true feelings and that Albert would surely catch them.

Franz cleared his throat and returned to the couch, soon followed by Albert, who was now smiling just as he had been before, seemingly unaware of Franz’s embarrassment, although something of the satisfaction that gleamed into his eyes gave the baron the impression that Albert was perfectly conscious of the tension he had now created and, moreover, was amused by it.

“Tell me, Franz,” said the young lad, “tell me. What happened after I left for the scorching sun of Algeria? I need to know; my dear mother rarely speaks of Paris: she seems to find Marseilles quite enjoyable, if not exciting. I have rarely seen her as happy as she is now. Tell me, then, don’t look so shy!”

Franz did try to laugh, but his throat only let out a bark, and he quickly masked it with a fit of cough.

“Many things, my friend, too many things for my poor brain to collect them all in one session.”

“Did you marry any lady?” Albert abruptly asked, perusing a book which laid open on the coffee table between them, probably as a distraction. However, the lad could not avoid the flash that passed through his face and Franz could not say if it had been anger, or curiosity.

“No, I have not,” said Franz, smiling sweetly when Albert raised his head and fixed his eyes on him, apparently bewildered.

“You haven’t married? Really, Franz? Have you not found any lovely young girl to share your fortune, your life with? I am surprised, I must say!”

“Are you, my friend? In truth, are you really?”

“Why, of course!” cried Albert. “After all, yours is a good fortune, yours is a respected name amongst the high society of Paris. Many families would gladly sacrifice you their only daughter in exchange of the great honour of calling her  _madame Franz d’Epinay!_ ”

Franz smiled to himself.

“You speak as if marrying me would be an irredeemable curse, my friend. I am no monster nor tyrant, aren’t I?”

“Ah, my dearest Franz, who am I to judge? I have forgotten the _etiquette_ and ways of life in Paris. I have forgotten many things.”

“In truth?”

“In truth! I feel as if I have entered a whole new world! And to think that I was raised in it makes me even more amazed that I seem to have dismissed all the society _bon-ton!_ Tell me, Franz, can you imagine how life is in Africa?”

“Why,” Franz answered, even more disconcerted now that he realised that his simple little _garçonnière_ must seem of an incredible luxury, compared to the discomfort that Albert surely had had to endure after his downfall, “Beauchamp has travelled there and he must have mentioned twice or thrice…”

“He has travelled! As a soldier?”

“Well, no.”

Albert smiled.

“He does not know, then, believe me, Franz. But let’s not speak of that!” he said, languidly stretching his lean body on the couch.

“Let’s not speak of that, then.”

“How is life going for the two loveliest betrotheds of Paris, _mademoiselles_ Eugénie Danglars and Valentine de Villefort?”

Franz shook his head, biting his lips.

“Ah, my friend, how cruel you can be! Why remind me of the shame and heartbreak I had to endure because of Villefort and remind yourself of your own failure as a fiancé? Why talk of the past, when we can discuss of the future?” he said, crossing his legs and avoiding to stare at Albert, whose eyes where now closed and whose head was thrown back, drinking in the warmth of the summer day. The light shone on his skin and created shadows that did splendours on the lad’s face. Albert sighed in pleasure and the echo of that sound; a sound that Franz had heard oh so many times, in different tones and scales, in a different situation too, this sound reverberated to the core of Franz’s body, sending a shudder to his back and another to the lowest part of his waist.

Franz shifted slightly and then Albert opened his eyes and smiled wickedly, waking another wave through Franz’s soul.   

“Of the future, Franz! With you!”

“Yes, with me,” answered the baron, “does that seem terribly pretentious of me to believe that we will spend some time together? As I said, I have many things to tell you.”

“Spend some time together…” the lad repeated, straightening on the couch and smiling broadly. Franz repressed the slight feeling of panic and excitement that this vision provoked. “Really, Franz? Would you? Would the baron d’Epinay, son of the late baron de Quesnel d’Epinay, spend his free time with Albert de Morcerf, son of the late and traitor”– his lips shrunk into a grimace – “Fernand de Morcerf or, should I say, Fernand Mondego?”

“I would, friend,” Franz answered, not believing for an instant that the merry and cheerful tone of Albert reflected his true state of mind. He knew that Albert was hurt and still sorrowful, but he chose not to comment on it: he had learned that Albert could be merciless, when depressed. “I would, and you perfectly know this. You, however, would not.”

“I, your truest friend, wouldn’t? You offend me, Franz!” cried the youth, but his lips quirked.

“You would not, if you were in my position and I were in yours,” Franz said, serious as a priest serving mass, “you would not, because you are terribly vain and conceited, and you think too much of the opinion of _la haute société_.”

Albert laughed, and threw his head back, while saying:

“Maybe I have changed! How can you be so sure I am still the man you knew before the count de Morcerf took his own life and my mother and I were casted away? Answer me, how?”

“Because, if you weren’t still the same, you would not be so shamelessly teasing me.”

“Don’t you like it, Franz? Aren’t you glad that I am still your Albert?” the boy asked, after having barked out a laugh and a _“you are quite right!”_ , and Franz felt himself shiver when Albert stressed the last two words. He did not let any of his current emotions (and beginning of arousal, he realised with horror) show on his features and smiled, although this simple gesture took him a good deal of effort.

“I would have been miserable if you had changed.”

“Oh?”

“I would have been. Do not make me repeat it, for my pride’s sake.”

“Your pride, my dear Franz,” Albert said, inclining his upper body towards Franz and laying his forearms on the little table for support, “your pride and dignity, I have had the leisure to observe, are not as strong as you pretend they are. You haven't forgotten our Italian nights, I shall hope; you didn't seem so haughtily proud back then.”

The coffee table acted as a barrier between them but it had not stopped Franz from noticing a particular light in Albert’s eyes; a light that he had seen many times, just as he had heard Albert’s sigh many times.

Needless to say, Franz was shocked. He had grown used to Albert’s own openness and filthiness (because, if the words had been ambiguous, the tone of voice had been clear enough and Franz was more than sure that what Albert was suggesting was the memory of something absolutely _filthy),_ but he had never dared imagine that the younger man would go beyond his usual teasing and playfulness in such a blatant and scandalous way.

“Dear,” Franz gasped, shifting on the couch to find a more comfortable position, conscious on the sudden string of involuntary arousal that stabbed the part under his belt, “what are you implying? Be careful, weren’t I your friend, I would provoke you to duel at this instant!”

Albert simply laughed and shook his head.

“I do not believe one word you said, Franz. I truly do not think that you are as offended as you are trying to look, nor that you do not know what I am signifying.”

“My friend…”

“Why aren’t you calling me Albert? You used to be so fond of my name.”

Franz sighed and, discreetly, pressed his hand to his chest, where his heart was beating so fast that the baron asked himself how it didn’t echo in the whole room. He took a long, deep breath of pure, sun-warmed air and closed his eyes for an instant, before looking at Albert again, who was staring at him, a fond expression on his features. Franz felt a wave of warmth, of reassurance that Albert did not hate him run through his body and, strangely enough, it was a different kind of hotness than arousal.

 “Franz, my dearest friend,” said Albert, stretching his hand in a slow, deliberate movement, “my dearest, most sincere friend – I beg you to believe me when I say that I did not mean to offend you and, if I did, I most humbly apologise. I could not know that those… memories could grow to be shameful to you. Pardon me for mentioning them. It will not happen again.”

The hand landed on Franz’s knee, almost on his thigh, and Franz was astonished to notice that he did not want it to leave and that it did not bother him in the slightest way. He sighed, relishing in the sensation of warmness on his leg, appreciating the light movement that Albert had started to imprint on his own hand, as if he was caressing Franz.

“Albert, I truly do not know what memories you are talking about,” Franz lied.

“In truth, my dear friend?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Albert murmured, his hand trailing imperceptibly (Franz could _feel_ it, light as a feather) up his leg, “will you let me enlighten you, then? Will you let me _stimulate_ you until you have recollected all your memories?”

“Enlighten me?” Franz asked, purposefully choosing to neglect the other sentence.

“Yes, dearest Franz, enlighten you,” echoed Albert, stopping the motion of his hand, “certainly, I must have used the right term? I cannot be so sure, as I have spent rather a long time amongst a different race and different people, who speak a different language.”

“It is… quite the right term,” Franz answered, hypnotised by Albert’s skin, once so pale and delicate, now tanned and calloused but still incredibly perfect and instigating. “Although I must admit, I do not understand what you mean by it.”

“I am fairly sure you do, Franz,” said the lad, not laughing anymore, but his mirth and cheekiness still brightened his dark, doe eyes. “Do not play the innocent virgin with me, Franz, I beg you, it is terribly distressing and it does not suit you. Can you possibly have forgotten that all I know of the ways of love and pleasure, you taught me them?”

Franz very well knew that he could not, that he should not be paying any attention to what Albert was insinuating, nor to what he was seemingly proposing, but he suddenly found himself enthralled by the idea of taking gratification with Albert again, for he knew well how exquisitely beautiful the lad could be, when lost in his passion and body.

Whether this was right or wrong, Franz did not care much: he did not particularly believe in religion or in society’s morals. What refrained him was not the fear of being corrupted and committing sin, he had been corrupted a long time ago and did not attach weight to one’s virtue, for he did not think that such a thing existed. No, what refrained Franz was a sense of hastiness and fear, he felt as if his recollections with Albert were going too quickly: they had shared a lot of moments, especially their intimate ones, but his fondness and affection to the young lad were not solely based on mutual, physical pleasure. Franz did not want Albert to think that he sought his company only to take advantage of his body.

“Albert…” said the baron again, “you mustn’t think that – you must not think I do not care about you. I do, deeply, and you know how far my love for you –”

“I know,” quietly answered Albert, covering Franz’s hand with his other one, the one which was not busy stroking the soft woven of Franz’s trousers, “I know, Franz, but do you, tell me, do you know how hard I had to fight for my comrades’ respect? Do you know how much I missed, there in Algeria, the company of someone I could truly rely on? Do you know, how much I missed _you?_ Do you know how depressed and miserable I felt, knowing you here and me there, separated by not only the vast sea, but also ranks and social class? Things have changed, I know, but let us go back to what we were, to what we had before the count” – at these words the lad closed his eyes for a second – “before the count of Monte-Cristo came into our lives? Don’t you want to?”

“Albert,” Franz whispered, looking into the boy’s eyes and clasping his wrists with his hands, aware that his hesitations were beginning to falter, his own lust and crave to have a human, beloved body warming his, were starting to take over his sensibility. “Albert, of course I do, but you must think…”

“I have,” the other man replied. “I have thought, quite thoroughly, and I am sure. I am sure of what of I want, of what I desire, I am not intoxicated nor inebriated.”

“Albert…” and then suddenly there he was, straddling Franz’s lap, his long, thin limbs encircling his waist and creating a most delicious pressure on his stomach, sending a renewed and, if possible, more intense spike of arousal.

Albert’s hands were not restless, had never been, and Franz could feel them kneading and rubbing up his sides, the internal side of his thighs. The lad did remember well, Franz mused to himself, he had not forgotten what made him lose all his sense of existence and control over his person. He sighed in pleasure and, finally, _finally_ , stopped thinking.

And then Albert was kissing him, fierce and passionate, his fingers now threading through Franz’s curls, compelling him to arch his head. It was no sweet kiss, it was all tongue slipping between each other’s lips, quiet groans and roaming hands, shifting and pressing hips, shocks of arousal sending shivers and shudders up their back.

“Are you still indecisive, my friend?” asked Albert, holding Franz’s face in both his hands and scrutinising his eyes, his breath heavy and warm on the baron’s cheeks and mouth, his smiling red lips shining in the broad light. “Are you still amnesiac?”

“I think” – Franz interrupted his sentence to catch Albert’s lips again in a tender kiss – “I think I still might need some… _stimulation_.”

 

Sometime later, after Franz had dismissed his valet and cook, the only servants he accepted, after both of them had retreated into Franz’s vast, finely decorated bedroom, after they had undressed each other with the same hastiness and clumsiness they seemed to adopt when eager to worship each other, when Albert had gone to his knees in front of Franz, this latter found himself so completely and utterly lost in his pleasure that he could not fathom why _on Earth_ he had waited so long, when Albert’s tongue still was as wicked when he talked as when he was otherwise occupied.

After that, Franz finally had the opportunity to see for himself how much Albert’s physique had truly changed: the boy laid sprawled on his bed, one of his legs bent in a surprisingly boyish, shy attempt to hide his exposed body from Franz’s appreciating eyes, and he was lavishly gorgeous. The light of the afternoon gave his olive skin a golden glow, almost as if the ray came from God Himself to shine onto this heavenly creation. He was divine, Franz thought, and returned the youth’s smile.

Franz climbed the bed, slowly trailing with his fingertips the faint shadow of a scar on the lad’s chest, bowing his neck to brush his mouth along the healed wound, and then to brush on his companion’s lips.

“You,” he said, punctuating each word with a tender kiss and a caress, “are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid my eyes upon.”

Albert smiled drowsily, and lazily stretched his arms, sighing in a languid, soft manner.

“You are in mood of compliments, my heart and soul,” he said.

“And you are in mood of endearments.”

“I am in mood of quite a lot of other equally enjoyable and pleasurable things, I can assure you.”

“I needn’t any assurance, as I will see for myself that you will enjoy your time here, with me,” replied Franz, his hand trailing down.

“I always” – Albert gasped and bent his back when Franz gave him a first taste of how thoroughly he planned to help him revel in their time together, before regaining his usual cheeky attitude, this time softened by a touch of tenderness. “I always enjoy my time with you.”


End file.
